The wind howled through the ancient stones of Kaer Morhen, the sound as familiar as the alchemical fumes clinging to your skin. The great keep had always been lonely, but with the Witchers scattered and the halls nearly empty, it felt more like a tomb than a sanctuary. You sighed, leaning over your workbench, carefully grinding dried wolfsbane into powder for a batch of potions you knew would likely go unused for months.

Your argument with Vesemir that morning still burned in your chest. You had challenged his insistence on tradition—on keeping the old ways alive at the expense of adapting to the new. He had walked away gruffly, muttering something about “youthful arrogance,” leaving you to stew in your frustration.

The silence weighed heavier than usual. The fading daylight cast long shadows across the lab, and you found yourself straining your ears, hoping for some sign of life—Lambert’s loud jokes, Eskel’s quiet reassurances, or even Vesemir’s grumbling.

But none of them were here. Just you and the rattling wind.

And then, you heard it.

A voice. Low and gravelly, but unmistakable. “Smells like you’ve been busy.”

Your breath caught, and the mortar in your hand nearly slipped. Slowly, you turned toward the doorway, your heart pounding in your chest.

There he stood, framed by the dim light of the corridor, his silhouette unmistakable. White hair tied back, armor worn and dusty from the road, and that familiar wolf medallion resting on his chest.